


Fires in Winter

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [17]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beleriand: Fury Road, Kidnap Dads, M/M, kidnap family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28068801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Elros and Elrond learn a great deal from, and about, the elves that have taken them from Sirion, over the next two decades as the world begins to burn.
Relationships: Past Fingon/Maedhros
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 68
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he heard Maedhros laugh, Elros was eight years old.

Winter was brutal that year. The Fëanorians kept to the forests of Taur-im-Duinath, but even they were blanketed in snow, and few game tracks made their way through the cold white powder. There was warmth in the small, hasty fortress their followers had constructed, for there was wood all around, and the fires were kept burning hot in the hearth. The fire could do little for the chill of the belly, though, and by Midwinter, Elros and his brother heard the cook murmuring that the food stores were running low.

On a day that dawned bright and cold, the twins heard the Fëanorians talking quietly together. Then, Maedhros, tall and stone-faced, with scars that Elros had heard about as the monster of his mother's childhood, turned to them. "Come," he said, and Elros knew better than to disobey. "Even little princes need to learn how to be useful."

"I'm useful," Elros hissed, clutching his brother's hand.

"And now you'll learn to hunt."

"I'm coming, too," Elrond said, though Maedhros had not spoken to him.

"You're coming with me," Maglor told him, and held out a hand. "I heard there's an old woman in the village nearby who knows the secrets of finding secret herbs under the snow. Wouldn't you rather learn how to do that?"

Of course he would. Elrond still hesitated, so Elros squeezed his hand once, then followed after Maedhros. The brothers were not in a bad mood, but it was too easy to change that, and Elrond wept sometimes when there was shouting. (So did Elros, but he pretended he didn't.)

Maedhros didn't look back, assuming he was following. He fetched ropes, a spear, several knives, and his sword. "Grab the bow," he instructed, nodding to a small longbow hanging over the weapons rack. "I'll teach you to shoot."

 _That_ was an enticement. Elros followed more eagerly, bow and quiver clutched in his arms, and followed the tall elf out into the wilds of winter.

Maedhros pointed out signs Elros could not see, showing him what was a bird's track, what was a rodent, and how they could be told apart. He showed Elros how to set snares, and how to make hollows in the snow to sleep in, where the wind would not bite. At night, his body was warm like a furnace, and Elros allowed himself to lie just close enough to feel that warmth. Maedhros never seemed cold. He didn't sleep that Elros saw, just lay on his back and stared up at the stars, unmoving, until morning came.

In the mornings, he moved stiffly on one leg, but loosened up once they found a pace. His strides were enormous, and Elros was red-faced with the effort of keeping up, finally tugging on Maedhros's cloak when he couldn't any longer. "My legs are too short," he protested, heaving for breath. "I have to take five steps for every one of yours!"

Maedhros looked unimpressed. "What will you do when you're fighting someone as tall as me, if you can't even keep up?"

Elros bared his teeth. "Win."

Something flickered in Maedhros's uneven stare, and he shrugged one shoulder, turning back to the snowy forest.

That night in the hollow of snow, Maedhros pulled out a cold baked tuber and an ermine he'd caught earlier, then roasted over the fire. He gave both to Elros, who ate ravenously, and laid back, staring up at the stars, long after Elros had hidden the bones and the ash the way Maedhros had taught him to.

The fourth day, Maedhros spotted a flock of pheasants, and nodded to Elros. "String your bow."

Elros fumbled with the cold wood, the string eluding him. He tried, but the stave was stiff, and fought him, slipping out of his hands whenever it got close. "I can't," he finally admitted, and thrust it up towards Maedhros to do it for him, as if Maedhros were one of his mother's servants that would indulge him.

The tall elf only raised an eyebrow at him, then held up his right arm, that ended in a stump. "I said I would teach you how to do it, not show you."

Of course. Elros flushed, embarrassed, and bent over the bow again, his young muscles straining. No matter how he tried, the stave would not bend.

"String it," Maedhros said mildly. "Or we won't have any food to take back to your brother."

The string slipped over the notch and into the groove in a last burst of effort. Elros's arms felt like jelly.

"Good. Draw the arrow."

Maedhros's instructions were clear and precise, his left hand businesslike as it corrected his form and posture. For all that he could not use a bow, he seemed to have a great deal of knowledge about how one worked, and how to teach the use of one. He guided, touching as little as possible, and finally nodded. "Go on, then. Like I told you. Aim--just a bit higher. Draw your arm back. Now shoot."

"Just like that?"

"That's all it is."

The first arrow flew true, and the bird let out a horrible squawking sound, flapping one wing feebly as its fellows took flight. Maedhros wasted no time, and threw his light spear, bringing down two of the fat birds at once, and Elros marveled at the accuracy and power in that strike.

The bird Elros had shot was still flapping one wing, twisting and scrabbling in the snow, letting out horrible sounds. He closed his eyes, hoping it would be over soon, and gritted his teeth.

Then a strong hand grabbed his right arm, and pulled him forward. "You wounded it," Maedhros told him, with no reproach in his voice, just cold fact. "Now you must finish it."

"I don't want to! It's hurt!" _What if it knows I'm the one who hurt it?_

Maedhros let go of him, and walked over to the bird. With one quick twist of his wrist, he snapped its neck, and it lay still on the snow. For a long moment, he stared at it, crouched down, watching little droplets of red drip onto the white.

They made back for the fort. Maedhros produced a few more baked tubers, and a squirrel he'd nailed to a tree with a throwing knife. Again, he ate nothing, giving all of them to Elros, who refused to question it. If Maedhros wasn't hungry, well, fine, he could starve. _Elros_ was hungry.

"Why can't we eat one of the birds?" he asked crossly, when he'd eaten all Maedhros had produced and his stomach still grumbled.

Maedhros was pinning one of the birds with his stump, plucking out the feathers with the other, laying them into a large cloth he'd spread out. "A bird that size requires some skill to break down. We'll use the bones, the organs, the skin, everything. Out here, it would be messy, with waste."

"But I'm hungry."

"Drink more water."

"I'm not thirsty, I'm hungry!" His mother had told him and Elrond of her wonderful older brothers, twins, like them, who had teased and protected her. She had told them of the day the red star came to Doriath, and how her kind, brave brothers were starved to death in the woods by the monsters of the House of Fëanor.

Elros began to weep, and pulled his cloak up over his face, not wanting the largest monster of all to see him cry. "I don't want to die in the woods," he whispered shakily.

Something nudged at his thigh. He looked up through tear-reddened eyes, and saw Maedhros holding out another wax-wrapped tuber. "Eat it," he said brusquely. "It's the last one. I'll find something else tomorrow. I won't let you starve."

The tuber was cold, but it warmed him inside. Elros wiped his tears, feeling embarrassed now. To hide his shame, he muttered, "When we get home, teach me how to fight with a sword."

He expected Maedhros to refuse.

Instead, Maedhros just looked at him, and seemed weary. Or maybe he was sad. It was hard to tell. "All right," he said, and laid down to stare at the stars, jaw clenched shut.

The next day was colder. They trudged through the snow, and the cold seeped through Elros's boots, chilling his feet until he couldn't feel them. Maedhros checked the snares he'd left, and came back with a fox, three hares, and a vicious bobcat, that thrashed and fought when Maedhros tried to free it, so he just slaughtered it instead.

"Who was the greatest hunter you ever knew?" Elros asked, curious.

Maedhros cleaned his knife, and trussed the game up in a net. "Oromë."

Elros glared at him. "Be serious."

"Oromë rode out with my brother Celegorm, and taught him the way of the wild," Maedhros said, with no humor in his voice. "There was great love between them, once."

"...I know that name. My grandfather killed Celegorm Fëanorian."

"Yes. He did."

"Good."

Maedhros watched the snow around them for long minutes. Elros grew sleepy, and slumped against Maedhros's side as they walked, needing the warmth. "Yes," Maedhros finally said, so quietly Elros wasn't sure whether he'd dreamed it or not.

On the sixth days, Elros saw a track, or thought he did. Maedhros went to check the snares he'd left, with an injunction to _stay put_ , but Elros didn't plan to go far. His stomach growled, and he tried to figure out if it was a bird, or a crawling rodent, from the way Maedhros had showed him how to read tracks. Where was the backwards toe mark? Yes, there it was.

He scampered up between a pair of rocks, hoisting himself with a tree branch, and looked eagerly for the nest.

Movement flickered. Elros went still. That didn't sound like a bird.

Then, all of a sudden, the bush to his left expoded. A hissing scream sounded, and then the orc, a filthy one-legged creature with weeping pustules all over its face, grabbed him by the front of his tunic, grabbing him close.

It smelled _foul_. Elros screamed, kicking and punching as much as he could, but it was strong, and he was eight, and all he could see was the sharp teeth, as it dragged his arm to its mouth.

Then, a crunch.

Elros hadn't realized he'd squeezed his eyes shut until he heard the sound, and opened them again. The orc sagged, a spear impaling it cleanly through the forehead, and nearly a foot into the tree behind.

Maedhros lifted Elros up with his hand, hardly seeming to notice his weight. "Don't _ever_ run off on me again," he snarled, and shifted him to the other arm, so he could wrench the spear free. "You see? You see what happens? Stay where I can see you!"

Elros rather thought he would have been shaken, if Maedhros had the hands to do it. As it was, he had the spear in his hand, and Elros tucked awkwardly under his right arm, unprotesting. He looked furious, or maybe frightened--but no, it must be fury, monsters were never afraid.

At their fire that night, he spoke the first words he'd said since the orc. "Can we...not tell Maglor about this?"

Maedhros stared into the fire, as if it held some secrets for him. "Promise me. Promise me you won't sneak off."

"You kidnapped me." Elros hadn't meant to say it, but folded his arms across his chest. "Why should I?"

Maedhros gave him a hard look. "If you want to kill me, pick up that knife and do it properly."

Elros glared at him. "Is this a trick?"

In response, Maedhros took up the knife, unsheathed it, and pressed the point to his own neck. "Go on. Take it."

Uneasily, Elros stood, and held the hilt.

"If you're going to kill me, kill me. But you have to find your way back to the fort." Maedhros looked up at him, looking completely unafraid.

Elros looked around the forest. It all looked the same to him, with the snow still falling and blanketing their tracks.

"And then," Maedhros continued calmly, "where would you go? Would you kill my brother? He actually _likes_ you."

Elros bared his teeth, hand tightening on the knife. Maedhros was baiting him. Maglor had kidnapped him, too. He knew that. He _knew_ it. He knew Maglor had killed many in Sirion. "Yes," he lied, unable to think of it, but unwilling to give up.

Maedhros didn't laugh, at least. "All right. Then where will you go?"

"Home to Sirion!"

"We are a hundred miles from Sirion. Will you go on foot, two young boys, across the forest? There are more than one-legged orcs waiting to eat you."

Elros's eyes stung with tears. He yanked the knife back from Maedhros's throat, scowling as he flopped down in the spot he'd cleared. "I hate you."

Maedhros picked up the knife, and sheathed it. "I know."

On the seventh day, they made it back to the fort. Elrond ran out to embrace him, speaking eagerly of all of the herbs and morels they'd found, and the new songs he'd learned. Elros showed off the bow, and tried not to be angry when Elrond proved a far better shot than he was himself.

Late at night, he heard Maedhros and Maglor talking. Elrond lay next to him, their hands clasped, and Elros knew he was awake, too.

"...nothing bigger than that."

"If there are no deer, there are no deer, I can't call to them like Turko could."

"Still, this is hardly enough for a week."

"I'll go out again."

"Be mindful. The spiders are coming closer and closer every month."

"It's fear of me that's kept them back this long. If they forget, I'll remind them."

"The children are too young to see that kind of thing."

"Then let's send them to Ereinion."

"...You _know_ we can't. It's far too dangerous. Sirion is under open assault, even if we could get there."

"I know. But you seem to keep forgetting."

"It was one thing to go without food when it was just us, but the boys are growing."

"I said I'll go out again, didn't I? You nag like an old woman."

"You haven't been sleeping. You always get like this when you don't sleep."

"How could I? Alone with the boy?"

"Bed, Russandol. I'll sing."

"Not if you're going to sing another lament."

"What other songs are there, for us?"

It was three weeks before Elros noticed, and another before he thought to bring it up to Maglor. He woke early, and made his way to the kitchen, stockinged feet padding on the cold stone floor. Maglor sat by the window, staring out into the vast expanse, a cup of tea long-cold between his elegant hands.

Elros opened his mouth, then shut it, horrified, realizing he was about to call his kidnapper _Ada_. There was no reason that should have come to him; he had never known a father, and knew full well how he and his brother had been 'acquired.' Still, what other word was there, for someone who kept you safe, warm, and fed through the long winters of the world?

Maglor's eyes flickered, and he looked over, appearing to rouse himself from some trance. "Elros," he murmured, and looked down, as if only now he realized there was a cup in his hands. "Are you hungry? Do you need something?"

Elros came and sat at the other chair, hoisting himself up. Maedhros and Maglor had made this place for themselves, and were both ridiculously tall, making him feel very short indeed. "What's wrong with him?" he asked bluntly. "Why doesn't he need to sleep or eat?"

"Maedhros?" At Elros's nod, Maglor thinned his lips. "He does, both. But he doesn't trust himself to sleep unguarded."

"What does that mean?"

"He has dreams of violence being done to him," Maglor said, as gently as he could. "And cannot wake himself. He does not wish to strike you in his confusion."

Elros shuddered at the thought. He'd seen Maedhros strike men and orcs before. Often, they died, even if he had no sword in his hand. "And eat?"

"He eats."

"He hasn't eaten for weeks."

"No," Maglor admitted. "He hasn't. There is little food, and he won't take what we need to feed you two."

"Is he not hungry?"

"He is. Wouldn't you be, if you hadn't eaten in weeks?" Maglor smiled at that. "You are usually hungry even when you're eating."

Elros flushed. "But won't he starve to death?"

A strange, bark-like sound came from behind him, and Elros jumped. It came again, and he saw Maedhros in the doorway, leaning against it, clutching at his stomach.

He was laughing.

For just a moment, Elros thought he looked different. He looked handsome, and almost shone with a fire that burned inside.

Then it was gone, and he was cold again, with a face like a monument, something meant to be beautiful, but carved into stone and worn by time and weather.

"Russandol," Maglor said, sounding taken aback.

Maedhros reached over, and before Elros could flinch, ruffled his hair. "You won't be rid of me that easily, little prince. Grab that sword I gave you. Let's see if you can beat a starved old cripple today."

He couldn't, of course. But Maedhros liked teaching him the sword, and some of the lines eased from his face that showed strong whenever Elros held the bow.


	2. Chapter 2

Elros was twelve years old the first time he saw Maedhros drunk.

Despite the cruelty of the winters in the forest, that one summer was lush and green, and even a small settlement like theirs attracted certain brave traveling merchants. Some of them had formed a caravan, then set up an impromptu faire in a neighboring human village, and the Fëanorians had brought the twins to see it, and to reprovision themselves.

Maedhros had given him and Elrond both a purse, with six silver pennies there for each of them. "Buy whatever you like," he'd said, and ruffled Elrond's hair. "The trapping was good this spring, and I've enough to sell."

Sometimes he hesitated, as if he wanted to call them by another name--something of _starlight_ , something of _little one_ \--but he always mastered himself, before he could fully carve one more road between his heart and another's. Elros knew that feeling, and never let himself call them anything but _Maedhros_ and _Maglor_ , even if his heart told him there were other names they should have.

There were a dozen vendors or more, all boasting goods the like of which neither twin and seen in years, if ever. A juggler was performing, and Elros watched, fascinated, as the brightly colored balls twirled in the air. Elrond grabbed his arm, and dragged him over to a vendor that sold cloth in fine waves of blue. "That would look good as a cloak. Yours is torn."

Maglor had sewed it, badly, after the huge spider had come upon them unawares, and nearly bitten his head off. Maedhros had beaten the things back, an image that still haunted Elros's dreams for how violent it had been. "Maybe," Elros said skeptically. "But who would sew it?"

"I could. If you want."

"Better, let's get a set of knives!"

Elrond raised his eyebrows. "Aren't there many at home that we can use whenever we wish?"

"Of course. But these will be _ours_."

Elrond nodded slowly, seeing the appeal. "Do we have enough?"

The weapons vendor was kind, and informed them that between the two of them, they had enough for one fine knife. "Maybe," Elros muttered, and stuffed the coins back into his pocket.

The vendor twinkled at him. "I should think there would be someone among your number who could make such fine blades as put the ones I sell to shame. Is that not the eight-pointed star on the red field I see? Surely, the Sons of Fëanor have some skill in the forge."

"You would think," Elros said, and the merchant laughed.

There was quiet applause from behind them, and the twins turned to see a minstrel take the stage the juggler had vacated, carrying out a large harp. He began to sing, some old ballad Elros hadn't heard before, something about a mountain and a young lord.

_"Bright the dawn on Mithrim's shores,_

_Did Prince Fingon depart,_

_To Arda came for valiant wars,_

_Yet song was in his heart._

"Elros, look! They have tinctures here for _everything_ ," Elrond said enthusiastically, pulling him to another cart. "I wonder if this one would ease the aches in Old Mog's knee."

"Just a silver penny for you, little lord," the merchant said cheerfully. "Made from herbs blessed by the greatest of the Edain, straight from the Falas. You won't find better in all Beleriand, not these days."

_Atop the peak so fell and foul_

_In Morgoth's clutches writhed_

_In agony, with mortal howl_

_Still Nelyafinwë lived."_

Elrond was already reaching for the purse Maedhros had given them. "Have you got anything for clear sight? Or old infection?" he asked, though Elros hadn't known of anyone in their settlement with those afflictions. Elrond seemed to find them, or they him.

"Aye, let's see. Ah, here--"

A crash sounded from behind them. Elros turned, his hand dropping to the sword he wore, and the minstrel's song died immediately. He saw Maglor, clutching his brother around the waist, ignoring the way Maedhros struck at him. Maedhros had dropped the box he'd carried, an enormous trunk of hides they'd brought to sell, and his face was stark white. He was lunging, grabbing for the minstrel, his eyes wild. Maglor hissed something in his ear, and Maedhros went still, chest heaving.

Slowly, Maglor lowered his arms. Maedhros stood for a moment, staring at the minstrel as though he were The Enemy himself. "Never sing that song again," he said, voice cold.

"I--I'm sorry, milord," the minstrel stammered. "I heard this was a camp of the Fëanorians, the _Fair Prince and the Fell Peak_ is the only--"

"It's fine," Maglor said crisply. "Perhaps something of Gondolin, before the fall. Do you know _Lords of the Fountain_?" He hummed a line, and the minstrel went pale at the sound of his magnificent voice, staring at him.

"You...milord, I couldn't sing for _you_ ," he protested, sweat beading on his brow.

"Nonsense, you were doing a fine job of it. Come, pick up your harp, my brother will not hurt you. _Blue flows the water, 'neath fruit of Laurelin..._ "

Elrond hurried forward, before Elros could see what he was doing. He bent, packing the furs back into the trunk, and fumbled for the strap Maedhros used to loop it around his right shoulder. Maedhros took it, still pale, with a nod. "Go enjoy yourselves," he said, but his voice was odd, hollow.

That night, Maglor said nothing when Maedhros brought back the wares he had procured, everything on the list, and a barrel of a foul-smelling wine besides. He sent the twins to bed early, but neither of them slept. The sound of Maedhros's cup hitting the table over and over again echoed through the house at intervals, making them both jump.

"Did you hear the song?" Elros whispered, in the darkness of their room.

Elrond shook his head. "I haven't heard it before, either."

"Me neither. What did he call it? The Fair Prince, something."

"Something about a Peak."

"Do you think Maglor would tell us?"

"He doesn't usually hide anything." That was true enough. Neither of the brothers lied, as far as the twins knew. They would bluntly, or gently, state the facts of their own misdeeds with a frankness that was sometimes disturbing, but Elros never had the feeling they were being lied to.

"Boys!" Maglor called. "Come out here, please. I know you're awake. I need your help."

Elros jumped as if he'd been caught spying. The two of them shuffled out, to find Maglor sitting at the kitchen table, and Maedhros slumped down over it. Maglor's eye was swollen from the blow he'd taken earlier, but he didn't seem to notice. "I _can_ get him to bed myself," he explained. "But only if I carry him in a way that will cause him pain. If you can support his legs, I'll show you how, this will go easier."

"Just leave me here," Maedhros slurred, his eyes half-open. "Sing, Káno."

"We're not doing that now," Maglor said firmly. "Elrond, come to this side. You must lift here, at the thigh, and here, at the calf, both at the same time, but keep the leg slightly bent. Elros, just balance on the other side, that one is fine."

"Sing his song. His summer song."

"No," Maglor said patiently, and came round behind Maedhros. Maedhros was tall and well-muscled, but Maglor wasn't much shorter, and lifted his brother from the chair. With the twins' help, he lifted him completely, nodding towards the door. Maedhros grunted, and Elros couldn't tell if it was from pain or something else.

"He's really heavy," Elros said, panting at the effort just of lifting one of the elf's legs. "I thought elves were supposed to be light."

"S'the wine," Maedhros said, and laughed, his voice drenched with the stuff. "Or the Oath, maybe."

"Don't listen to anything he says when he's like this," Maglor informed the twins, and shouldered the door to Maedhros's bedroom open, trying and failing not to bump his brother against the doorframe.

Maedhros didn't seem to notice. He didn't seem to notice being hefted onto the bed, either, when the twins set him down at Maglor's command, carefully arranging his legs. "Elrond, fetch another cup of wine."

Elrond paused. "Another?"

"Yes." Maglor met his eyes, and as usual, did not lie to him. "He's nearly drunk enough to sleep properly. Any less, and he can still move, and might hurt you."

"Do's he says," Maedhros mumbled. "More. Káno. Little songbird. _Silver Bow and Golden Wyrm_."

"Not now, Russandol."

Elrond brought the wine. Elros watched, as Maglor helped his brother sit up, and tipped the cup into his mouth. Maedhros accepted it, like a child taking his medicine. Then he sagged back onto the bed, face slack.

"Why wouldn't you sing the song?" Elros found himself asking, when Maedhros's breathing had evened out. "Was it because it makes him sad?"

"Everything makes him sad," Maglor said, watching his brother sleep.

"Then surely it's no worse, so why not?"

A shadow crossed Maglor's face. "Because it isn't my voice he wants to hear."


	3. Chapter 3

Maedhros and Maglor did not lie to the twins. They did, however, hide things.

Elrond was fifteen, and growing tall, when he found out how Maedhros slept most nights. Elros was exhausted, his arms drooping like wet cloth after the spear-throwing practice Maedhros had put him through. He had proved devastatingly skilled with both lance and spear, while Elrond had always preferred the accuracy of the bow. They both studied the sword, of course. Maglor and Maedhros would not tolerate anything less.

"He's so mean," Elros grumbled, laying flat on his back. The bed had long ago grown too small for both of them, and another had been found. In recent years, Elrond had been glad of it, as his form had begun to change in most embarrassing ways. Doubtless Elros was experiencing the same, but that didn't mean they needed to _talk_ about it.

He'd tried to talk to Maglor about it, once. _"When you're older,"_ he'd said with a smile. _"Perhaps in twenty years."_

 _"But my mother was only thirty when I was born,"_ he'd answered, and watched Maglor's face change in dismay.

"I thought you liked spear practice," he pointed out lightly, making a notation on the song he was writing. He had little gift at composition, he thought, but Maglor was always so pleased when he tried that it made him want to try harder.

"I do. But Maedhros is a _sadist_. Even when I do everything right, he makes me do it again on the other side! Just in case I lose a hand! He's crazy!"

"He just wants us to be ready."

"For what, though?"

Elrond's pen paused. "For...you know."

Elros shot him a look, frowning. "Say it. Whatever you're thinking."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

 _Because it scares me_ , Elrond did not say, but knew that to his twin, it was written over his face.

"It's another foresight, right?" Elros asked eagerly. "Come on, tell me. Was I in this one?"

Elros's unflinching desire to hear everything he Saw was always a relief, even when what he Saw frightened him. Elrond nodded slowly, and tried to remember. "War," he said finally. "And...I don't know. There's a man with me. It might be you."

"Wouldn't you know?" Elros asked, obviously offended. "I always know it's you, if I dream of you."

"The man is old."

"Ooh." That intrigued Elros, he could tell, and his twin was silent for a long time. Finally, he fell asleep, and Elrond tugged the quilt up over him in the darkness. His song lay forgotten on the page. Probably for the best, he thought with a sigh, and ventured out of his room in search of food.

He had not realized how dark it was. There was something odd and forbidden about moving around the fort at night. It reminded him of when they had been young, maybe seven, and had determined to run away. They had bundled their clothes, snuck to the kitchen for food, and seen Maedhros standing there in the dark, unmoving, staring out the window. _"Go to bed, children,"_ he'd said, without turning, and they'd obeyed, feeling stupid.

Since then, Elrond always moved slowly and carefully through the darkness, certain that he would see Maedhros standing around every corner, implacable and unmoving. He was no longer so frightening as he had once been, but Elrond still had a healthy fear of coming upon him in the night, especially of surprising him unawares.

The night was still, and no shadowy figure lurked in the kitchen. Elrond exhaled, and made his way to the larder, pulling down a loaf of bread and a few dried apples, which sat better in him than meat. There would be enough long days in the winter when all they had was whatever game they could bring in, between increasingly frequent attacks by the Enemy's foulest troops.

A noise sounded from the close wing. Elrond swallowed his apple, and stood, slightly nervous and trying not to be. The sound came again--a thumping, followed by a scraping. Without meaning to, he crept down the hallway towards Maedhros and Maglor's rooms, something he never did. Maedhros had warned him against it when he was very young, and the warning had stuck, until now.

But his blood was up, and he had a feeling if he went back to sleep, he'd either have another Foresight dream, or he'd have one of the _worse_ dreams, the ones that left him sticky and embarrassed, so it was better to stay awake. He walked as softly as he could, pretending he was a full elf, and graceful like Maglor, whose feet never made a sound.

One of the doors was open. Elrond wasn't certain which was which, but light was spilling out, and the sounds were growing louder from so close. Something was making great sounds of impact at irregular intervals, and the closer he listened, the more he heard something underneath it--a choked, wheezing, muffled scream.

Unable to help himself, he set his hand to the door, and leaned close, trying to peer inside.

The door opened under his hand. Elrond's eyes went wide, and he scrambled back, but Maglor caught his wrist, holding a finger to his lips. He looked exhausted, backlit by the lanterns inside. "Do you want to see?" he asked, and his face was shadowed.

 _No_. But Elrond nodded, so no one would think he was afraid.

Maglor led him inside. There were four lanterns burning, more than Elrond had ever seen lit in one room at a time, and he squinted against the brightness. It threw the room into harsh light and shadow, and let him see clearly.

Maedhros was bound to the bed. Ropes lashed him at his elbows, his waist, his hips, and his feet, good elven rope wrapped around him so many times his clothes bunched up beneath it, pulled so tight Elrond could see it digging into Maedhros's skin. He was also gagged, with a wad of cloth stuffed into his mouth, then secured there with a leather buckle. His eyes were closed, and tears were streaming from them as he thrashed, his powerful muscles jerking the bed around, making it scrape and thump on the floor.

"I'm sorry," Maglor said softly. "I didn't close the door properly. It's as tightly fitted as I could make it, so you two never have to hear."

Elrond looked up at him, horrified. "You...do this to him?"

Maglor nodded. His eyes were on his brother, and the grief in them was so strong Elrond thought he could reach out and touch it. _Why can't I learn how to heal that?_ he thought, his heart hurting. "It's the only way to stop him from hurting himself."

"Hurting himself?" Elrond heard the quaver in his voice. "What do you mean?"

Maedhros screamed, muffled by the gag. Maglor shut the door with a gentle click, and pulled a thick curtain across the door, further insulating the sound. "He sees enemies that are not there," he explained. "But these days, he usually knows when the dreams are coming. Do you remember when he wore that bandage on his hand, last year?"

Elrond nodded slowly.

"That time it came upon him unawares. He...hits things. Ghosts."

Maedhros sobbed, the sound weak and broken, and nothing like the huge, powerful elf Elrond thought he knew. "How often?"

Maglor leaned down, brushing the hair back from his brother's face. "These days...once a week, or twice. If I am not here, and he feels them coming on, he won't sleep."

"Elros always says he gets cranky when you leave," Elrond whispered.

"I am certain that is part of it. He fears to hurt you two. And with only one hand, he cannot tie himself. It was different when we had wine in plenty, but now...this is all I can do for him."

The next scream was one of rage. The bed shook so violently Elrond thought it was going to break. Maedhros was snarling through the gag, choking on his own spit, trying to kick and strike, the fingers of his hand curled into a claw. Elrond felt it suddenly, the sick loathing and fury, radiating off of him in a wave. The disgust, the hatred, was terrifying, and Elrond wished he had not the gift of seeing into unguarded minds. "What enemies does he see?" Elrond asked, nervous to hear the answer, because what could be so terrible that it would make the most frightening elf he'd ever met quail in fear?

"Orcs," Maglor replied, and sat in a chair pulled up next to the bed, still stroking the short hair that fell in sweat-damp strands into his brother's face. "Balrogs. Deceivers. Morgoth himself."

"He...has met Morgoth? The Enemy?"

Maglor gave him a rueful smile. "My brother was once High King of the Noldor," he said. "And Morgoth's mightiest foe, ere the Moon and Sun rose into the sky. I know, little you would think it of us now."

Elrond wanted to flee. This was too ancient, too terrifying. He didn't run, though. "Will you teach me the song?" he asked, looking up at Maglor. "The summer one that he asked about, that time we went to the festival? If it makes you sad, I'll be the one to sing it, though I have not your skill."

"You have far more skill than I," Maglor told him, and tucked a strand of Elrond's hair behind his ear, as if he, too, were a precious part of Maglor's family. "In healing, and in wisdom. Let me see if I can remember the words. It has been a very long time since anyone near me has lifted his voice to summer's bounty."

Protestations aside, Maglor's musical memory was perfect. Elrond saw the lines of grief bite more deeply as he sang, and closed his eyes to commit the song to memory. He lifted his own voice, higher and less trained. Once they had gone through the full song, Maglor gestured for him to repeat it, and found a harmony that changed the entire landscape of the piece. Elrond saw green hills, bursting flowers, the peace of the sun baking into warm bodies, the glee of gentle streams giving life to plants and animals alike.

At some point in the song, the noises from the bed stopped. The lines in Maedhros's face eased, relaxing into a true sleep, tears dried on his face. He was very beautiful, Elrond noted in a detatched sort of way, or once had been, before the scars.

"You're good at that." Maglor's voice was kind, and Elrond saw him wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his robe. "I think you'll be a very talented healer someday."

Elrond would usually have flushed with the praise. Now, looking at Maedhros, he just felt sad. "Is there no succor for him? No true healing? Even if I grow to be a very great healer?"

"Not in Middle-Earth."

"Then in the Blessed Lands?"

Maglor reached out, brushing the short red locks behind his brother's ear again. "For some people," he said carefully, "the shadow of pain is more torment than the injury."

Elrond didn't know what to say to that. "Will he sleep now?" he asked, wanting desperately to leave.

"For a time. Thank you, Elrond. Sometimes..." Maglor's face clouded over again. "It is difficult to sing alone."

Elrond paused, with his hand on the door, looking back over his shoulders. "Do _you_ ever dream? Of violence being done to you?" Maglor was not scarred like his brother, but neither was he unmarked.

It was a long minute before he answered. When he did, the words were faraway. "I dream of violence," he finally said, and closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. "But when I cry out in the night for the darkness in my mind, it is not my enemy who holds the weapon."


	4. Chapter 4

The first time he saw Maedhros blush, Elros was seventeen.

The shadow of war had been creeping every closer, even to their hidden corner of Beleriand. Orcs, wargs, and spiders crawled thick through the trees, whenever they were not stopped and killed, and travelers rarely wandered the roads through the woods any longer. The last time a traveler came with word, the news was simply, "Beleriand is lost. We are alone."

When word came of an conquering party of orcs, a massive wave that dwarfed all of the others, Maedhros finally gave in to the twins, and let them ride out to battle with him to defend the settlement.

The first time he saw Maedhros truly fight an army instead of small raiding parties, he thought he had seen Tulkas himself, if Tulkas had been missing one hand. Maedhros's sword lashed again and again, striking before the orcs even had a chance to react. Elros spurred his own mount forward with an eager yell, as Elrond's arrows darted forward around him, and Maglor sang a song that called strange lights out of the trees, blinding and dizzying their foes.

Elros had been certain, seeing the wave upon wave of black forms scuttling over the hillside, that they would be killed or captured. There were only four of them, and a dozen soldiers left in the settlement, and there had to be a thousand orcs at least. His palm had been sweaty on the hilt of his sword, and he'd locked eyes with his brother.

But Elrond had not looked afraid. And that, the idea of being cowed when his brother was not (he was the _elder_ , by twenty minutes, his nurses had sworn so) could not be borne. So Elros had donned the helm Maglor had given him, and drawn the sword Maedhros had given him, and ridden out between them. He knew himself protected by the arrangement, but there were still plenty of orcs that tested him, and met his blade.

He killed nine orcs, and felt himself proud. Then he saw the brothers, Maedhros and Maglor, pin a wave of a hundred between them and crush it into oblivion, their swords flashing black in the moonlight. He stared, slack-jawed, as the last of the Fëanorian soldiers made their way through the battlefield, finishing off what orcs had not been entirely killed. "Dalgan," he called, seeing a man that he knew, a human who had always seemed cheerful. "Is...when elves ride to battle, is that what it looks like?"

Dalgan looked up at the sons of Fëanor, and gave him a wry smile. "Nay, lad. That's what it looks like when _they_ ride to battle. Did you never hear of _The Ride of Maedhros on the March_?"

Elros shook his head. "No. Do you know it?"

"I do. Come by my fire sometime. I've many songs I could sing you."

Dalgan did indeed know many songs. He taught Elros _The Fair Prince and the Fell Peak_ , _Red Star Arising, Long Lay the Gap, The Battle of Ard-Galen, Lothlann Sweet in Spring,_ _The Ride of Maedhros on the March_ , and dozens of others, tales of glory and victory against the Enemy in days long past. The songs made him feel wild, a far cry from the sad laments Maglor always sang for them, and he repeated them breathlessly to his brother, each night he returned.

"I wish I could have seen it," Elros said with a sigh, his head thumping back against his headboard. "All those elves and men, riding to war against The Enemy. I wish I could have been one of them."

"...I wonder if things would have gone differently, if Doriath had sent troops."

Elros's eyes flew open, and he turned to stare at his brother. "What?"

Elrond looked troubled, and nodded towards the few precious books Maglor used for his lessons in lore. "The Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The last great battle against Morgoth. The greatest host ever to be assembled against the Enemy, and our people sent no one, and the battle was lost."

Elros swallowed hard. "And...Gondolin?"

Elrond's face cleared a bit at that. "Great-grandfather Turgon went himself," he assured his brother. "And did deeds of incredible valor. So for that, we need feel no shame."

"Good."

"Is that the kind of king you would like to be someday?"

"Me? A King?"

"We _are_ the scions of kings," Elrond said softly. "High King Gil-Galad has no children. We are the last descendents of Fingolfin, who was High King. Have you never thought of it?"

Elros opened his mouth. His brother's eyes flicked to him, knowing, too-smart, and he shut it, sheepish. "All right, I've thought of it," he muttered, and Elrond laughed. "But I'm not about to run out in the middle of a land full of orcs to wrestle my distant cousin for a crown."

"Or me."

"As if you could, I'm older than you."

"By twenty minutes!"

" _And_ a better wrestler."

"I'm a better archer."

"I'm a better swordsman!"

"I've a better memory!"

"Who would boast about something like that? Let me shape the future, not memorialize it!"

Elrond tackled him then, and put to the test who was truly the better wrestler.

Dalgan continued to teach Elros songs, and share with him tales of the glory of the Fëanorians, and all the House of Finwë, before the battle. Many of them came from the elves in the ragged band, who had been there. Elros liked those stories. It was easier and better to think of his foster fathers as they had been, shining beacons of hope among the Noldor, than what they had become. They were the monsters of his mother's childhood, but the heroes of his own, for all the times he had seen them leap headfirst into action at the defense of himself and his brother, or those that followed them still through the long grueling winters and wave upon wave of raiders. It was difficult to see them as the cruel monsters even _they_ insisted they were, and if they had chased his mother off a cliff, well, she _could_ have just given them the jewel.

He said as much to Elrond one day, and Elrond gave him a pained look. "We ought not to think like that," he said sternly.

"But you do, too."

Elrond looked down at the deer he was skinning, troubled, and did not answer.

One night, Dalgan introduced him to a young human woman, around his fire, when Elros snuck out of the fortress to meet him in the encampment. "This is my friend, Aredhwen," he said, and Elros thought there might have been a strange look in his eye.

Aredhwen wore her bodice very tight. Elros noticed. Then, just in case she had tightened or loosened it, he noticed again. "Hello," he said, feeling suddenly very young.

"So," Aredhwen said, smiling as she leaned close to him. He could smell the sweet oil she wore in her hair. "You're the little prince the Lords hide in the fortress up there. You must know _so_ much about them."

Elros rather thought he knew less than most of the people around the fire, but Aredhwen looked very interested, and her bodice was still very tight. He checked again--yes, still tight. Quite so. "Ah. I suppose?"

Her smile was very wide. "Do you know if they often have...company? Elven ladies?"

"Never."

"Human women?"

Elros shook his head.

Aredhwen beamed at him. "It's only that I have a couple of friends that would _love_ to meet them. You understand what I mean, don't you? You're a fine, strong young man yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes," Elros said, because if she wanted him to be a Man, he rather thought it sounded like a good idea.

"You're wasting your time," Dalgan murmured. "I'm telling you, Red. Elves don't do it like we do."

"Like you've ever bedded an elf," she scoffed.

"That's the _point_. You don't bed them."

"Well, if elves and men never played, then how would we see this little prince?" she asked, her smile sharp as she turned back to Elros, reaching out to trace the tip of his ear.

Elros felt very hot under his collar, and stood, immediately turning to go. "I'll come back tomorrow," he said, and before Dalgan could call after him, he ran all the way back to the fortress, heart thudding.

Elros's body burned for three days, thinking of Aredhwen and her bodice. He went back the next night, and she was wearing a _different_ bodice, and that was tight, too. That night, she gave him his first kiss, and touched his thigh, and called after him in frustration when he left.

Embarrassed, he ignored even his brother, and would have gone on ignoring everyone if Maglor and Maedhros hadn't come into their room two days later, closing the door behind them.

"It has come to my attention," Maglor said, and Elros could not tell if he sounded stern or amused, "that one of you has been seen sneaking out of the fortress to visit whores in the settlement. Speak up, tell me which one it was--or was it both of you?"

Both of them stared, dumb. Elrond, because Elros was pretty sure he had no idea what a whore was, and Elros, because he was pretty sure Aredhwen was one, and he _still_ didn't know what it was.

Maedhros sighed. "Both of you, then. This is my fault. I thought you would have taken after your mother's kin more than this. Nay, don't apologize, this is my fault and not yours."

"It's a little of both," Maglor corrected, smiling. "Well, now we _must_ have speech of it, in any case."

What followed was perhaps the most humiliating, embarrassing, and enlightening moment of Elros's life thus far. Maglor seemed quite educated in matters of Eldar traditions and customs, though he often looked to the side at Maedhros, as if affirming whether a thing were correct or not. On the subject of Men, he deferred, and Maedhros did his best to fill in what gaps he could, bluntly explaining the more carnal aspects of the twins' newly traitorous anatomy, and what they might do with them someday. "I've lived with Men," he explained. "For over a century now. They do not bond as the Eldar do. When a Man takes a lover, it is his choice, to remain faithful or to discard them afterwards."

"Can an elf really only have one love, forever?" Elrond asked, his dark eyes wide.

The brothers looked at each other, frowning. "Yes," Maedhros said slowly. "Under normal circumstances...yes."

"Under normal circumstances?"

"Well..." Heat crept up Maedhros's neck, to his ears. "Aside from Grandfather's case, which I know we've told you about, it is...not impossible that you might, ah, find yourself in a situation of..." He gestured helplessly with his hand. "Finding pleasure with someone, but having not sworn your vows. I know it has happened before. But you should not make study of it. That is not how it is meant to be. Also, you may love, and have no sensual knowledge of each other, and never wed."

"True," Maglor said, and his eyes were faraway.

"And," Maedhros added, "if you lie with whores, you must tell Maglor immediately, so he may check that you are free of any illness. I know not what might befall you, but I have seen humans sicken and die after such things."

"Have you ever had lovers, then?"

Maglor's face turned quite pink. "I...yes," he admitted, and saw Maedhros look curiously at him. "In my youth. I courted, and know well how it feels when blood runs hot, and must be assuaged."

For the first time, Elros noticed the light glinting off of Maedhros's ring. _A golden band on the index finger._ "Are you married?" he asked, startled. He'd never seen Maedhros so much as look at another elf that wasn't Maglor, except to bark orders or sell furs.

Maglor spoke hastily. "Don't ask about that, Elros. That was a long time ago, and--"

"Yes." Maedhros's voice was calm and measured, and he put his right arm on Maglor's shoulder. "Yes. I am."

"To who?"

A flicker went over Maedhros's face. Perhaps it was pain from his knee, for he pulled out the chair from Elrond's writing desk, and slowly sat. "Maglor," he said quietly. "Sing _The Fair Prince and the Fell Peak_."

"Russandol..."

"If you say my name sadly when I ask you to sing one more time, you will regret it."

That was more like the Maedhros Elros knew. Even Maglor quailed from that tone, and he nodded, and sang. Maedhros stared down at his ring the entire time, as if he had forgotten it was there until Elros mentioned it.

And when the song was over, he spoke, his voice low, the words coming to the twins as if out of the mists of time.

"In another world, before I was what I am now...I loved. From the first time I saw him, I loved him. But I was...soft, then. I let the world press on me, and tell me what I should be. I looked at the one I loved, and told him we should keep our counsels close, for I feared to be ridiculed, or that laws and customs would keep us apart."

"So we kept quiet. And I watched my brothers wed their wives, and have feasts, and the one I loved could not understand why I would not share the same with him. My reasoning was because of my father."

"Did you fear your father?" Elros asked, his hands twisting in the blanket covering his lap.

Maedhros gave him a soft flicker of a smile. "No. Or...yes. I feared what my father was. But more than anything, I feared losing his love. Because he was unfond of my beloved, and I could not devise how to change his mind."

"So you parted," Elros guessed.

"No." A shadow fell over Maedhros's face as the candle guttered, and went out. Maglor stood to fetch another, lighting it, but the angle had changed somehow, and Maedhros looked more fey. "Or, yes. We parted in body, but never in spirit. I sailed to Middle-Earth with my brothers. The ships...burned. I did not stop it. And I left the one I loved on the ice, to make the perilous journey on foot, as his compatriots starved and fell to their deaths around him."

Elrond sucked in a breath, wide-eyed. "My great-grandmother died on the ice." Elrond had read him that story, from one of the Histories of Gondolin he loved so much.

"She did. So did many others. Their deaths are my fault, too. But not the one I loved. He survived, and was strong and true. And when he arrived in Middle-Earth at last, he found me, as the song says."

Elros blinked slowly. "The...song? The one he just sang? But what does that have to do with--"

" _You're_ the one who was hanging from the Thangorodrim?" Elrond squeaked, always sharp at learning things from songs and tales. "And the one you loved--Prince Fingon? Who was High King? Our great-uncle?"

Elros gaped. "But...in the song, it said your name..."

"I had another name, then." Maedhros raked his fingers back through his short red hair, pulling it back from his face. "Maedhros was what..." He looked as if he were gathering up his courage. "What Fingon called me. Long ago, in another land. He...he made that up, the night we were wed."

"I didn't know that," Maglor murmured. His eyes were dark, fixed intently on his brother, as if some of this story were new to him as it was to Elros and Elrond. "That far back?"

Maedhros nodded. Though the subject was heavy, he looked oddly lighter, as if some great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "We were betrothed before you and I moved to Formenos."

Maglor sucked in a breath at that. "Russo...you should have said."

"I know."

"That means, the whole time I sang the silver bow song back in Valinor--"

"Yes. It was very embarrassing for him."

Maglor looked stricken, but Maedhros gave him a lopsided smile. "I think he liked it, though. He never did have his bow re-finished in bronze."

Maglor looked sorrowful for a moment. Then he sat at the desk, took out paper and pen, and suggested, "Why don't I draw him for you two? He's a part of your family, after all."

"Twice over," Elros agreed.

"Twice?"

"Yes. He's my great-grandfather's brother, after all." He looked up, and caught Maedhros's eyes. "And my father's husband. Right?"

Maedhros's mouth opened, then shut. For a moment, Elros thought there might have even been tears in his eyes. But then he stood, and the shadows fell over him again. "He's dead now," he said quietly. "I speak of this freely tonight, but do not...mention him to me unawares. I failed him, long ago. And unless I keep my Oath, I will never see him again, until the world is unmade and all things change, and perhaps not even then."

"You're speaking fey again," Maglor informed him, his pen skating rapidly over the parchment.

"It must be awful," Elrond said, with tears in his eyes. He had always been affected strongly by stories, especially stories of great love. "To be in love, and yet hide it."

"...No." Maedhros swallowed hard. "No. Not really. Of all the regrets I have, that is the least concern among them. For we had bliss in Valinor, hidden or no, and many long years of happiness here, shadow or no. If it had been otherwise, and I had not been a coward, I might have lost him at the first. For our fathers...no, that isn't right. My father hated his, though his father loved mine as a brother."

"Almost exactly as a brother," Maglor put in under his breath. Before Maedhros could chide him, he turned, unveiling his sketch.

The elf on the page was handsome, certainly, but Elros had never met an ugly elf, and this one was hardly painted in the loving strokes that the great artists used for King Finrod Felagund. This one, King Fingon, looked younger somehow, with laughing eyes and a determined purse of his lips, with brows that Elros recognized from himself, and his twin. "He looks very like us."

"You forgot the hair," Maedhros criticized.

"I confess, I cannot beautifully draw braids. And Finno..." Maglor looked stricken himself, as if he had not meant to say the former High King's name. "He always wore so many. He used to wear golden ribbons in them, boys, to catch the light of the sun when he rode out."

Maedhros barked out a laugh. "Aye, the sun. And it wasn't at all that Father caught me trying to forge him a wedding ring, and pounded the wires so flat they were good for nothing but to be braided into hair as ornaments."

Maglor looked sick. Elros tried to imagine finding out Elrond had had a secret marriage for hundreds of years, and failed spectacularly.

"Don't look at me like that. It is enough that I live with what I've done. You needn't take your ignorance upon yourself as another crime to lament."

Maglor touched his brother then, a gentle brush of his fingertips on the back of Maedhros's hand. Then he turned back to the twins, and sighed. "So. That is the story of Maedhros and Fingon, that no songs will tell. I have never spoken of it before. You are two of the few who know of it."

"Yourselves," Elrond guessed, frowning. "Who else lives, that knows?"

"None," Maglor said.

"No. Ereinion."

"Did he?"

"Aye, and more," Maedhros said, and stretched out his knee, grimacing as it made a crunching sound. "Because he had all the stories from someone very brave, after all. And we never hid from him, while we had the raising of him."

He snorted then, as if recalling something. "Truly, for hundreds of years, we did not hide at all. It was only that none cared to look. If they did see, they did not speak. Do not let that be your fate. When you..." He drew in a breath, and if the shadow of pain was on him, it was a different sort, a hunger and longing with no hope of being eased. "When you find the one you would join with, until the breaking of the world and after, do not hide. Be fierce in your love. Force any that would stand in your way aside. Be tender to each other, and unashamed. There is enough evil in the world without making criminals of those who love. If law and custom keep you apart, defy them, and if you must do so in secret, at least be unhidden in your hearts."

Then, the strength he had found while speaking seemed to leave him, and he looked pale and aged in the flickering candle's light.


	5. Chapter 5

"Get dressed. We're going to kill orcs."

Maedhros and Maglor looked grim. They usually did, these days. The settlement had been overrun with the Enemy's human servants nearly a year ago, when the twins were twenty-five. Not everyone had died, but they had scattered, and the fortress at Amon Ereb had been lost.

The Valar had come to Beleriand more than a decade ago, to make their war, the Last War, on the Enemy. At first Maedhros and Maglor had received the news and spoken the words with relief. Then Tulkas's mighty strides had knocked great caverns into the earth that gaped and gnashed, and Oromë's steed had cloven the cliffs, and Ulmo's waters had risen to cover all but the highest peaks, over and over, lashing the land with cruel blows even as they dealt them to the Enemy. Yavanna's trees turned cruel against the orcs, but they bore no fruit for men and elves any longer either. Varda and her kindled host of Maiar streaked from the sky like falling stars, and left ruin for the Enemy, and for the survivors. By the time ten years of war had passed, Beleriand was fraught, a place of chasms and blood, ever-shifting, ever-tormenting. Lost, as it was saved.

Sometimes, they saw other armies. Once, they joined one. It felt like a relief, to have others around, other grim and determined warriors. Elrond would never forget what it looked like, when that army was caught between the Balrogs and the spiders. That was the first time he'd seen Elros fight like a warrior, and the first time he'd seen his brother wounded. One of the human soldiers had been cloven by a Balrog's axe, and it had gone clean through him, and through Elros as well. He'd sung the song of summer without thinking, watching the horrible wound in Elros's gut close, and Maedhros and Maglor had stared at him, their faces awed and uneasy.

Since then, the Fëanorians wandered alone as a band of four, all the others lost, and they fought the Enemy. Elrond started to forget they had ever done anything else. He and Elros were helping, he thought. They certainly killed more as four than the brothers would have as two, and at least someone was watching to ensure no one snuck up on them from behind. Maedhros and Maglor were terrifying in battle, but sometimes they fought as if they knew their backs were covered, as if there would always be other strong warriors to come to their aid.

Elrond and Elros had agreed long ago that there would be.

By noon, they came upon a small campsite. Humans and elves alike had sheltered there, from the looks of the corpses. Black and red blood ran together, and Elrond saw Maedhros's hand grip the hilt of his sword so hard it turned white. "We have to move," he said, voice hard.

For five days, they rode hard. Elrond thought he might fall from his horse from exhaustion, but the Fëanorians never faltered or flagged, so he kept up. Elros seemed almost as grim as they, and rode with one hand on his sword, one on his spear.

Beleriand ran with blood and cracks. Elrond didn't know where they were going, traveling in a trance, as if he could will himself back to their home, before Maglor's harp was burned and his few precious books were lost.

"Elrond!" Maglor called, and wheeled his great steed around. "With me. The river."

Elrond nodded wearily, pulling up beside him. Elros and Maedhros took up their weapons, driving into a party of wargs that fast outstripped their march. The larger host was struggling forward, seething into the River Narog where it lay broad and flat.

Maedhros's sword flashed in the red light of Morgoth's fires, burning the hillside. Maglor began to chant, his voice low and musical, raising his hands. Elrond took up the song, and as they ever had, they wrapped their magics around each other, Elrond taking the lead and Maglor finding an unerring harmony, amplifying everything he called.

The Narog burst forth, roused to chaos under the wildfires. Orcs screamed, falling off their warg steeds as the water washed them away. Still Elrond and Maglor chanted, summoning the great music of the Ainur into physical form, reshaping the nature of land and sea and wind, until the orcs were rushed over the edge of the waterfall by a wave the size of a mountain.

Maglor sagged in his saddle as the song faded, but gave him a small, fierce grin. "You're much better at that than I am," he said, and turned his horse, as Elros drove his spear through the last of the stragglers. "We might make it yet!"

Every hill they crested, they saw orcs in the distance, or up close. Every pass they threaded, Maedhros rode first to draw out any ambush, then the twins, then Maglor grimly at the rear, holding off any pursuers. Every time they paused to rest, they heard the black whips of Morgoth's lieutenants, lashing the creatures into movement.

Maedhros flinched whenever he heard the sound of those whips, for the first few months. Eventually, even that faded to something hard and cold in his face.

"We have to stop," Elrond finally said, and pulled his horse up when no one heeded him. Maglor heard first, and whistled loud. Maedhros finally turned, and pulled his own horse to a stop, turning around to scan the valley in alarm.

"I can't keep going like this," Elrond admitted. "I can't feel my legs. If they're chasing us, we'll just fight them, won't we? Does it matter where we go?"

"We _have_ to keep moving." Maedhros was firm.

"I can't go on, either," Elros said loyally, though Elrond thought he probably could have. "Maglor, please. Just a short rest."

Elrond expected Maglor to give in, as he usually did, and wheedle his brother into relenting.

But it was Maglor who said, "No. The hills here are weeping. We must go, now."

Surely enough, Elrond felt the tremors in the ground through his horse's shaking legs. They'd felt such things often, when the Valar were fighting nearby, and the mountain was about to split with fire. The orcs would be coming, in a massive wave, and fast. If Elrond were rested, he could ease the land, calm the tremors, and raise a wall for them to shelter behind, but he was far from fresh. He dashed tears of exhaustion and pain from his eyes. "Where can we go, then? Will we run forever?"

Surely, the land was lost. The war was lost. Any last brave pockets of resistance to the Enemy had been overrun years ago, as their settlement had been.

Maedhros set his jaw, and pointed. It was the first time his hand had left his sword for days. "See that cleft, on the hill? Where the two rocks nearly meet?"

It was far, but Elrond could see it, and nodded, even as Elros shook his head doubtfully.

"There is a cave there, an enchanted one, that should shelter us until morning, even from the weeping hills. From there, we know a way."

"A way where?" Elros asked, weary.

Maedhros and Maglor exchanged a glance. "A way to a place that is easily guarded, and may be held long by few," Maglor said, and Elrond was too tired to speak against him.

The orcs crested the hills behind them, and Maedhros wheeled his horse, circling around to take the rear guard. "Go, go, now! Ride hard, we are faster than them, even if they are legion!"

They rode hard. Thrice more they found bands of travelers or villagers that had been massacred. Some had been ripped to pieces, partially eaten. Others had been displayed, tied to trees and scourged until they bled out, with great dark symbols carved into once-smooth flesh. Elrond had an uncomfortable memory of Maedhros's back, the few times he'd taken off his shirt around the twins, when they'd bathed in a snowmelt in the mountains. Those were laughing memories, of Maglor sitting by the side of the river singing teasing songs, until Maedhros had bodily tossed him into the stream, announcing that upstart little brothers deserved nothing else, and encouraging Elros to do the same to Elrond.

But Maedhros did not flinch at the sight of the flayed victims, no matter his memories. He led them, calling orders, changing their formation, keeping whoever was flagging protected in the center. Little by little, inch by painstaking inch, they crawled towards the gap between two boulders, and finally arrived.

There was indeed a cave. Maedhros and Maglor led them inside, and used some woodcraft to hide their entrance, for both were skilled hunters and trackers, and could confound pursuit.

There, Elrond threw himself down upon the ground, and knew no more.

When he awakened, he knew not how much later, Elros was still sleeping beside him. There was a lantern burning, but it was flickering, close to going out.

The cave was larger than it had appeared, and extended deep underground. He looked, but all of the shapes in the corners appeared to be rocks, and not their foster fathers. "Elros," he whispered, and his twin groaned, still half-asleep.

"Just a little longer, Ada..."

Elrond ignored him, and looked around. There was no sign of Maedhros or Maglor's packs, and no sign of the horses. An odd sense of misgiving came over him, and he lit a candle in the lantern, then walked back to the cave's opening.

It had been sealed, with a boulder that looked far too large even for two strong elves to move. But they had always been stronger than Elrond had expected, with the Light of the Trees in their eyes. A flicker of white caught his eye, and he found two scrolls--one long and formal, the other short, addressed to him.

_Elrond, Elros:_

_We found you in a cave, long ago. It is fitting that this should be the site of our parting._

_There is a path inside the cave. Do not fear the orcs; we have led them away, until the time you will be gone. Head to the back. You will find a stair carved into the rock that will take you down below sea level. The journey is long, and we have left you all the waybread and dried meat. There will be a spring, so do not be afraid to drink your water._

_At the bottom will be a tunnel. Follow it. When you come to the top, show the guard the second scroll. Tell him you will only give it into the hand of Ereinion Gil-Galad himself, by your right as sons of the House of Finwë._

_Do not be afraid. You are of a mighty house, and both of you are valiant warriors. Your arrival should be as a gift to those who would defy the Enemy._

_Do not defend us to those who curse our names. You will need friends, and their curses are of our own making._

_Do not forsake each other. A time may come when all you have left is your brother._

_We will not meet again. Should you follow, you will not find us, so do not try. Chase your own futures. May they be ever separate from our fates._

_For the childhood we stole from you, we cannot make amends. Seeing you grown into adults is a gift that should have belonged to your mother, and would have if we were not here. Do not forget that, either._

_Be safe. Be true. Be brave._

_We know you are._

_Maedhros, Maglor._

The second scroll, far more formal, was addressed to Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor at Lisgaroth. It was sealed properly with wax and a signet, the sort Elrond knew had burned with their fortress long months earlier. So, the brothers had been planning this for a long time. Elrond did not break the seal.

"Elros," he said again, and walked over to his pack, tightening the straps. His eyes burned, and he pressed at them with the heels of his hands. "Get up. We have a long way to walk."


	6. Chapter 6

"Was it really the right thing?"

"Yes."

"But if they are made to answer for our crimes..."

"They're children. I told you, Ereinion will not blame them."

"Others will."

"...Yes."

"I cannot stand it. I'm going back for them."

"Maglor. We can't keep them with us forever. Look at Beleriand burning. The Host of the Valar marches on the Enemy. You saw the dragonfire last night."

"Still, I would have them with us."

"Hush, Káno. Don't cry. They will be--"

"Don't say safe. Nowhere is safe."

"Safer than with us."

"Will they? Have we not kept them safe?"

"Have we not kept them _prisoner_?"

"I cannot, I cannot let them go--let go of me, I have to go to them, my boys--"

"They are grown. Don't deny them the chance to make their way in the world. You and I have a different destiny."

"I don't want it!"

"Neither do I. But it matters not, does it?"

"...That was all I had, Russandol. The only thing I ever did right. The last I had to give, I gave to the boys."

"Aye. And they will live, and thrive. Long after the two of us are gone. Be glad. We may have left one thing of beauty in Arda after all. But leave it we must."

" _Why_?"

"Because if we do not, they will turn to ash in our hands, like everyone else."

A long, exhausted, sorrowful pause followed.

"Then...let us chase the jewels, if we must. As we ever have."

"Aye. Stand with me a bit longer, little brother."

"It must be only a bit longer."

"A bit longer. Rally your strength for battle."

"Battle. Who do we fight?"

"If we are lucky, the Enemy."

"And if we are unlucky?"

"...The Valar themselves, I suppose."

"...Well. That would make a quicker end to it."

"See, already you are cheerful. So am I. Sing a song of war while we ride."

"I have only laments."

"That is because your harp is burned. We must get you another that has tales of courage."

"Another harp? In broken, burning Beleriand, where we never should have come?"

"Another harp, yes. I'll bend you one from the shattered trees if I have to. Get on your horse."

"You act as though you have some strength left, how?"

"You know the answer. Spite, and lack of any hope for relief."

"...Lead, then. I will sing."

"A song of victory."

"I don't remember any of those."

"Then make one up."

"I know not how the words would sound. I miss the children."

"Then sing of the children, and we will fight for a world in which they might live."

"There. That, I think, I can do."


End file.
